


The Schoolboy Error

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Medical Kink, PWP, Roleplay - Teacher and Student, Sex Toys, Spanking, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is desperate to escape detention. Doctor Watson offers him a choice of punishments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Schoolboy Error

Sherlock sits in a too small chair, knees jammed under a too small desk wearing a pair of cheap polyester trousers he wouldn’t normally be seen dead in and a poly-cotton shirt as scratchy as sandpaper. The trouser legs are too short and the shirt sleeves expose a long expanse of bony wrist. His hands are folded neatly on the table but there’s a vibrating tension in his frame. Every so often he shifts on his hard wooden seat.

The Doctor sits opposite him at a heavy mahogany table, reading through a sheaf of papers. The room is silent apart from the slow ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the scratching of the Doctor’s pen.

“Your handwriting is appalling, Mr Holmes,” he observes.

Sherlock says nothing. The desk is too low for him to cross his legs but beneath it his thighs are pressed tightly together.

The Doctor looks up, “Holmes?” he says, wanting a response.

“Sorry, Doctor Watson,” says Sherlock.

An hour ago he would have argued, probably observed that the Doctor’s hand writing was far worse than his own, but Doctor Watson had started the detention by giving him a glass of water and a little homily on the importance of adequate hydration, had repeated the ritual after thirty minutes and again thirty minutes later. The jug of water on his table is still not empty and Sherlock is rather eager for this not to happen a fourth time.

He is, in fact, quite desperate.

“Better,” says the Doctor, and returns to his marking. He’s a mild looking man with sandy hair, wearing a checked shirt and matching blue jumper. You wouldn’t think to look at him that he had a will of steel and the ability to keep even the most unruly of students in check. It’s just as well; Sherlock can be very unruly indeed.

The clock ticks on towards the ninety minute mark.

Sherlock shifts again. There’s a warm, heavy pressure in his groin and his trousers constrict him, the waistband cutting uncomfortably into his stomach. For the last forty minutes the need to urinate has been nagging at the corner of his mind, the detrusor muscle signaling its distress with increasing urgency. Normally he can ignore his bodily demands, but this one is intense. He needs to loosen his trousers. He glances up. The Doctor is frowning and consulting a heavy text book. Good. Sherlock slides a hand across the desk, drops it into his lap and waits for a moment. No response from the Doctor. His fingers find the straining trouser button and he hooks his thumb carefully over the waistband. The tight skin of his abdomen is hot to the touch, damp with perspiration. He cants his hips slowly forward, wincing as the movement puts additional strain on his swollen bladder. The chair legs squeak as they skitter across the wooden floor.

The Doctor looks up, “Both hands on the table please.”

Sherlock bites his lip but obeys. He concentrates on breathing deep and slow and keeping his urethral sphincter clenched shut.  A thousand and one distractions compete for his attention: his shirt chafing him under the arms, the trickle of sweat making its way down his back, the way his nipples have hardened into tight little peaks in response to the heat and tension in his groin. When he looks down he can see them, clearly visible against the taut fabric of his shirt, when he looks up the Doctor’s eyes are still resting on him, thoughtfully.

_He knows._

A flush of hot shame sweeps up Sherlock’s neck and floods his face. It takes all his pride not to wriggle in his seat.

“May I go now, Doctor Watson?” he asks knowing it’s probably pointless but daring to hope.

“Not just yet, Holmes.”

“But Sir,” says Sherlock and there’s an edge of panic to his voice which he can’t supress, “it’s been over an hour, you said-"

“I know what I said,” says the Doctor imperturbably. “But three of your last five answers were wrong. Basic errors in reasoning.”

“What?” says Sherlock momentarily distracted. “No they weren’t.”

“Textbook says they were.”

“Then the textbook’s wrong!” says Sherlock. “I’ve been calculating molar masses since I was seven years old, I think I’d-”

“Sherlock,” says the Doctor quietly.

Their eyes meet. After a second Sherlock swallows and drops his eyes.

“Sorry Doctor Watson,” he says.

“Good boy,” says the Doctor and Sherlock can’t deny the hateful thrill that runs through him at those words. “Now, I want you to do three to nine for me and then-“ he takes in Sherlock’s expression. “Problem, Holmes?”

Sherlock feels his ears burn. It’s so demeaning to have to ask outright, but he’s not sure he can stand waiting much longer. “May I use the bathroom first, Sir?”

“Didn’t you go before we started?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Well you’d better crack on then, hadn’t you?” says the Doctor, pleasantly enough. “Come on.  The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but something about the Doctor’s expression brooks no debate. He picks up his pen instead and begins to write. These questions seem more difficult; urgency making it harder to concentrate. He’s only halfway through when the Doctor looks at his watch and picks up the jug.

“You look hot, Holmes,” he says and begins to pour. “Better have something to drink. Don’t want you getting dehydrated.”

Sherlock watches in dismayed fascination as the water falls in slow motion into the waiting glass; the sound of the slow trickling of liquid fills the room. To his horror he feels his urethral muscles begin to release and relax in sympathy. He drops his pen and jams his hand into his groin; holding himself shamelessly, willing the urge to subside.

“Holmes, what’s wrong?”

The Doctor has left his desk; and has Sherlock grasped by the shoulders. Perhaps he means to reassure but his actions only serve to  press Sherlock more firmly against his hard, unforgiving seat .

“I really need to go,” he confesses. “Please Doctor, please may I go?”

“Should have thought of that before you started, shouldn’t you?” says the Doctor implacably.

Sherlock pants. He daren’t remove his hands; only his tight grip holds back the flood. Maybe not even that will suffice. Deep inside he feels a muscle begin to pulse warning of the impeding deluge.

“ _Please,_ Sir,” he manages.

There’s an endless pause. The Doctor’s thumbs work absently at the tight muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders. “Finish the questions or twelve of the best,” he says eventually. “Your choice.”

Sherlock feels his jaw drop, “You’re going to spank me?”

“I don’t know,” says the Doctor. “Are you going to finish your work?”

Sherlock’s mind races; the questions will take another fifteen minutes to complete. The spanking should be over in two. Two minutes of discomfort then escape and blessed relief. The muscles in his groin spasm at the thought.

“Spanking,” he decides through lips which are suddenly dry.

The Doctor exhales slowly. “All right,” he says. “Bring me the ruler.”

 ***

The ruler is kept on the mantelpiece behind the clock for times such as these. It’s made of smooth oak and rather alarmingly heavy in Sherlock’s hands. The prospect of imminent release has steadied him, still he walks carefully, keeping his movements as slow and steady as possible. The pressure inside makes his back arch and his hips swing. Doctor Watson has seated himself back at his table. His face remains impassive but his head tilts slightly as he watches. His hands, when Sherlock passes him the ruler are warm and very steady.

Sherlock expects to be told to bend over and brace himself on the desk, but the Doctor seems in no hurry to begin. Instead his eyes trace over Sherlock’s body, lingering on his mouth, before dropping to his chest.

“Look at you, Holmes,” he says and there’s something in the timbre of his voice, which says oh yes, he knows about all Sherlock’s feverish dreams, the ones which involve Doctor Watson’s hands, and Doctor Watson’s mouth and the terrible desecration of Doctor Watson’s favourite blue jumper; knows exactly why it’s his class that Sherlock is brattiest in; knows that Sherlock craves his attention almost constantly, without really understanding why. He lifts the ruler and drags it lightly across Sherlock’s chest, just brushing the tip of each tight nipple. Sherlock bites his lip at the dart of sensation that shoots down his spine. He is so full; bursting, almost too sensitive to be touched.

“Undo your trousers,” comes the quiet command.

The hated polyester trousers drop to his knees, the cool air a welcome relief to his heated skin. Sherlock’s underwear is a pair of plain white cotton briefs, still pristine and unsullied. They do little to conceal how thick and heavy his penis has become; the heavy pressure against his prostate bringing him to a straining erection.

“Dear me,” says the Doctor mildly.

He draws the flat of the ruler up the inside of Sherlock’s right thigh, smooth, cool wood whispering against palest skin. At the top of the leg, where the skin meets the fabric, the ruler pauses for a second and for a heady moment Sherlock thinks it will rub against his bulging crotch. Another bead of sweat rolls down his back.  But instead of lingering the ruler drops to tap against the inside of his left knee before making its tortuous way upwards. This time when it reaches the apex of his thighs it does pause to stroke lightly against Sherlock's aching heavy balls. He gasps, first with pleasure and then in dismay as the reflex tightening of his muscles squeeze his throbbing bladder cruelly.

“Doctor?” he manages in a voice which sounds high-pitched even to his own ears. What he’s asking, he’s no longer sure.

“Turn around.”

He turns, grateful for clear instruction, and braces without being told; hands gripping the edge of the desk, arse presented for punishment.

For a moment nothing happens. The clock ticks onward. Sherlock feels something warm run down the inside of his leg. He hopes desperately that it is sweat. His heart beats in double time to the clock; he can feel his pulse in his temples, his chest, his aching cock. Then he feels the Doctor’s hands against the tender skin of his waist, carefully pulling his underwear down. This is to be a bare bottom spanking then: the ultimate indignity. Hot blood floods his face, but his shame does nothing to prevent his cock springing eagerly free. When he drops his head he can see it bobbing against his distended belly. He can’t remember ever seeing it so hard; the air flowing around it both a relief and a torment: his body signalling that now he's undressed, now surely it must be time to release.  He imagines how he must look, school shirt pushed halfway up his back, trousers around his knees, underwear stretched tight across his thighs, arse exposed and on display. He feels achingly vulnerable and brimmingly full and he wants desperately to touch himself.

He hears the chair roll backwards as the Doctor stands. A warm hand strokes down his lower back and rests on his sacrum.

“Ready, Sherlock?” says the Doctor.

Sherlock nods, not trusting himself to speak. The new position has shifted the liquid within him so that it presses in new and distracting ways. It’s all he can do to hold himself in place without fidgeting. The skin across his arse tingles in apprehension; the suspense is almost too much to bear.

The first stroke then, is almost a relief; it lands squarely across his right cheek with a loud crack. He had expected the sharp sting which follows but not, foolishly, the sudden jolt to his bladder and he cries out - more in shock than pain before seizing his lower lip between his teeth and breathing heavily through his nose.

The second stroke, unexpectedly, hits the left side. The Doctor has swapped hands; his left arm unfortunately is no weaker than his right. Sherlock groans at the burn which follows, far more severe because he has to hold himself tight and still.

The third and fourth strokes are worse; landing hard and stingy not across the centre of his arse, but lower, nearer the crease of his thigh. Usually pain doesn’t bother him: it’s an inconvenience which impairs his functioning, something to overcome, but this he can’t ignore. The urgency in his groin anchors him to his body; all his mental powers focused on holding the flood in check.

The fifth blow catches him slap across both cheeks at once, so sharp it brings tears to his eyes and the sixth follows in rapid succession before he has time to recover, making him shout. The Doctor either has a very good eye or a very poor one. Each stroke has landed in a different place, causing every inch of Sherlock’s behind to burn in separate throbbing lines.

“All right,” the Doctor says. “Halfway there.”

The ruler is placed by Sherlock’s left hand; he stares at it with muzzy loathing then forgets it entirely as the Doctor begins to rub careful circles across his skin, massaging stinging flesh until the pain disperses into a more generalised heat. Sherlock longs to melt into the touch, but he dares not relax a single muscle. Six more strokes before release. To his horror he feels a telltale fluttering at the base of his cock at the thought. He clamps his legs together tightly

“I'm fine,” he snaps. “You don’t have to coddle me, _Doctor_.”

“Pushy,” notes the Doctor, running his hand up the crease of Sherlock’s arse. This time he doesn’t ask if Sherlock is ready, merely takes up the ruler and resumes.

The seventh stroke, landing on already sore skin, is the worst yet but the eighth catches him in a sensitive spot and shakes him in unexpected ways, sending a wave of sensation through tightly clenched muscles and engorged flesh.  His yelp this time is not entirely pain and his cock, which has wilted under the onslaught, twitches in response.

 “Like that, Holmes?” says the Doctor.

Sherlock, split equally between hating it and wanting another, can't reply. Fortunately the Doctor doesn't seem to require response.

The ninth is unexpectedly light, a tap rather than a stroke; relief makes him giggle before desperation makes him moan.

“Don’t,” he begs. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The final three rain down with barely a pause between them. Ten scalds him; eleven thrills him, by twelve he thinks he might float away.

“All done,” says the Doctor and sets the ruler down. “Good boy.” He ruffles Sherlock's hair, almost fondly, then moves away to fetch something from his bag.

Sherlock sags forward, pressing his hot forehead to the cool seamed wood.  Done. It’s all done. He's a good boy. In a second , when the throbbing subsides, he will stand up, carefully, gently; pull up his trousers, and shuffle as quickly as he can to the bathroom.

He moves to push himself upright but the Doctor's voice stops him, “Wait there a second.”

“But Doctor,” he protests. “You said-“

“Just going to find you some cream,” calls the Doctor. “Make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” says Sherlock into the table. “You don’t need to.”

“It’s a mild analgesic, Holmes.” The Doctor sounds faintly exasperated. “It won’t take a moment; I know it’s around here somewhere.”

Sherlock pushes himself to standing, hauls his trousers back up, fumbling with the fly and ignoring the button totally. He doesn't have a moment; there’s a sudden heat in his groin and a spreading patch of warmth has nothing to do with the thought of the Doctor gently applying soothing cream. His bladder spasms again; he has seconds, if that, before he loses control.

“I just need-” he says and stumbles for the door as fast as his wobbly legs can carry him but before he can escape the Doctor blocks his way. He isn’t a tall man but he’s sturdy and his face is the not face of a man easily moved.

“I didn’t say you were excused.”

Sherlock gapes at him wordlessly. The bathroom is so near, just around the corner, he can see the door.

“Doctor,” he manages before his control finally fails him and he doubles over and wets himself.

“Oh _Sherlock_ ,” says the Doctor after a moment. There’s a world of disappointment in his voice and it’s worse than any scolding.

Caught, utterly exposed, Sherlock can do nothing but burn with shame. The hot stream soaks through his underwear stinging his sore skin before running in rivulets down his legs leaving wet spreading stains on his trousers.

“Imagine what the other boys would say,” the Doctor continues, “seeing you like this.”

Sherlock chokes back a sob, he can imagine it: the whispering, the staring, the laughter at his humiliaitng loss of control. The stream just comes faster becoming a veritable torrent. His trousers are drenched. Even his socks are sodden. He’s disgusting.

“Look at you,” says the Doctor; Sherlock can’t meet his eyes. “You’re going make a mess all over the floor.”

It’s true, he’s is. Much longer and there’s going to be a spreading puddle surrounding him but he can’t move. If he moves he’s just going to make it worse. All he can do is stand half crouched and make little whimpering noises of distress.

“Take this.”

‘This’ is the blue jumper wadded into a ball and still warm from Doctor Watson’s body. He stares at it blankly then presses it against his groin. It stems the flow but it’s soaked almost immediately.

“Go on. Sort yourself out,” the Doctor moves to one side.

He’s being released but he can’t run, all he can do is waddle; holding the sodden cloth to his crotch all too aware of the Doctor’s eyes following him. His toes squish in his shoes.

He makes to the bathroom without further incident but at the sight of the toilet his bladder finally surrenders. He can’t stop the flow even long enough to peel away his soaked clothes and his hands get drenched in the rush to undo his fly but none of it matters because the sense of release is ecstatic, better than any drug. He groans deep notes of pleasure careless of how he sounds, pissing for long minutes before finally sagging against the wall and closing his eyes, half-drunk with relief.

He’s not sure how long he leans there, but when he next becomes aware of his surrounding his wet clothes are starting to cool, and cling to him clammily. He peels them away and drops them in the bath; placing Doctor Watson’s jumper carefully on top. He’ll have to smuggle them into the laundry later.

Next he fills the sink with warm water and sponges himself down. The soft wet cloth feels pleasant against his skin, soothing. He feels strangely light and unanchored. When he’s done he pulls the plug and watches as the water spirals away. There’s a name for the way the water moves, but he can’t remember what it is; it doesn’t seem very important.

“Holmes, come here.”

The Doctor’s voice is not loud but it carries a quiet authority. There’s a bath robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Sherlock puts on and returns to the classroom.

Doctor Watson is sitting back in his usual chair. The table has been covered with a large white towel.

They stare at each other for a second.

“What just happened there?” says the Doctor eventually.

“I had an accident, Sir,” says Sherlock softly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry, Holmes,” says the Doctor and it’s true that he doesn’t look angry, more thoughtful. “Do you often have accidents?”

“No, Sir.”

“Wet the bed?”

Sherlock’s ears burn. He shakes his head rapidly.

“All right,” says the Doctor. “Might be a one-off then. Still, it’s not normal in a boy your age. Best check you over. Hop on up,” he pats the table.

 Sherlock perches gingerly on one edge, sparing his tender behind. Even with the euphoric haze enveloping him he can feel the pulse of his blood along the marks left by the ruler.

The Doctor places his battered brown leather bag on the chair beside them and fishes in it for a digital thermometer.

“I’ll have a look at your vital signs while we’re at it,” he says and presses the sensor into Sherlock’s ear. After a few seconds the thermometer beeps.

“Thirty-seven point four,” the Doctor says. “Bit high. Tympanic temperature always tends to be on the high side, though.”

Sherlock nods; content to trust to the Doctor’s expertise.

“Let’s try the other side. Thirty-seven point three. Ok. Maybe you just run a bit hot. Let’s try your pulse.”

Sherlock extends his arm obediently; the Doctor grasps his wrist, presses two fingers firmly against an inch below the base of Sherlock’s thumb and counts off the seconds on his watch with quiet absorption. Sherlock studies him covertly. It’s surprisingly intimate; with Sherlock sitting their heads are about the same height, their faces less than a foot apart. When the Doctor glances up Sherlock drops his eyes as though he’s been caught doing something forbidden.

“You’re very quiet, Holmes,” says the Doctor. He sounds amused. “Feeling all right?”

“Yes Doctor Watson,” says Sherlock, keeping his gaze demurely lowered.

“Sixty-two,” says the Doctor eventually. “Not bad.”

Sherlock’s not sure if he imagines the quick squeeze to his wrist because the next moment the Doctor is all business, fussing with a sphygmomanometer. Sherlock shrugs the bathrobe off one shoulder without being asked so the cuff can be wrapped around his upper arm and waits without complaint as it inflates, pinching his bicep.

“How’s your general health?” says the Doctor as they wait for the cuff to deflate.

“Good,” says Sherlock.

“Any recent weight changes, anything like that?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “

No Increased thirst or dry mouth?”

“No.”

“No vision problems?”

“No.”

The cuff loosens and slips down Sherlock’s arm; the sphygmomanometer beeps.

“One twenty over seventy,” says Doctor Watson, “disgustingly healthy. All right, drop the robe to your waist for me; let’s listen to your lungs.”

He warms the chest piece of the stethoscope in his hands but it still makes the hair on Sherlock’ arms stand up when it’s pressed to his chest.

“Bit cold?” the Doctor says. His breath is a gust of warmth against Sherlock’s cheek.

“A little,” says Sherlock.

“Sorry about that. Breathe nice and deeply for me, please?”

The chest piece wends its unhurried way back and forth across Sherlock’s chest as he breathes deep and slow.

“Well your vital signs are all within normal range,” says the Doctor eventually. “Pop the robe back on and lie back on the table.”

Sherlock reclines carefully on to his elbows, and from there onto his back scooting backwards so he’s stretched along the table. It must be six foot long because only his ankles overhang. The Doctor parts the bathrobe to Sherlock’s waist, leaving his crotch modestly covered, and works his way down Sherlock’s abdomen, careful and methodical probing for soreness or swelling. Sherlock lies docile and drowsy listening to the hypnotic tick of the clock, content that nothing is being asked of him other than to lie still and be tended to. Only when the Doctor’s hands brush across the thin line of dark hair that begins just below his navel does he stir.

The Doctor’s hands still: “Tender?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Ticklish,” he says. It’s partially true. The skin there is particularly sensitive. The Doctor’s touch had stirred echoes that Sherlock had felt in the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet and other, more intimate, areas. He’s suddenly grateful for the swaddling robe covering his crotch.

Doctor Watson nods, unsmiling. “All right,” he says. His fingers remain where they are, just brushing against Sherlock’s belly. “Do you masturbate, Holmes?” he says suddenly.

Sherlock's lethargic haze evaporates. He feels a hot blush wash over his face and neck at the unexpected question. When he looks down even his chest is covered with bright pink splotches. “Sir?” he manages.

“Do you masturbate?” The Doctor’s face is completely neutral, expressing only professional interest.

Vivid dream images flash through Sherlock’s mind. “Sometimes,” he admits.

“Only sometimes?” says the Doctor. “Most boys, it’s all the time.”

“I’m not-“

“Like most boys,” the Doctor finishes for him. ”No, I suppose you’re not.” He gives a faint smile, turns away and begins packing the instruments back into his bag.

Sherlock pulls the edges of the robe together, feeling a pang of loss now the Doctor’s hand is gone.

“Is it successful?” says the Doctor.

"Sir?”

“Masturbation. You find the experience satisfactory, when you do indulge? You achieve and maintain an erection. You experience orgasm?”

Sherlock goggles at the Doctor’s back. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Sometimes again eh?” says Doctor Watson shrewdly. “All right.” He takes off his stethoscope and places it on the top of his bag and turns back to face Sherlock. “Well, there‘s no obvious signs of any problems but there might be something going on with the PC muscles. Probably best to have an internal exam to be sure.”

Sherlock frowns. “An exam?” he repeats stupidly, thinking perhaps Doctor Watson wants him to calculate more molar masses.

“A rectal exam. It won’t hurt.”

Sherlock struggles up to sitting, ignoring his throbbing behind. “But Doctor,” he says, “I don’t know if I-“

“All right, Sherlock,” Doctor Watson’s hand is reassuring on his shoulder. “All right. I’m sure when you talk to the nurses-”

Sherlock stares. “Nurses,” he says. “Not you?”

“Of course not me. I’ll speak to the headmaster, tell him about your,” the Doctor pauses delicately, “accident, and we’ll get something set up with the hospital. Best I tell the House Mistress as well, sort you out some special bedding in the meantime.”

“No!” says Sherlock panicked. That Doctor Watson knows about his disgrace is barely tolerable. For anyone else to know would be unbearable. “No, you can’t tell anyone!”

“Well I have to tell someone,” says Doctor Watson reasonably. He hestiates, “Unless you want me to do it. I could do it now if you like. Get it over and done with. Do you want me to do it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes,” he says. “Yes Doctor. That’s what I want.”

“All right,” says the Doctor, becoming brisk. “Roll over onto your hands and knees then. I’ll just wash up and find some gloves.”

Sherlock clambers onto his front suddenly graceless. The robe unfolds around him as he kneels, bracing his weight onto his hands; his head hanging heavily between his arms.

The Doctor seems to be gone for an age though it may only be a few minutes. When he returns he’s carrying a pair of purple nitrile gloves and a plain brown box. He sets the box on the chair beside his bag.

“Let’s just get this out of the way,” he says and folds the bottom of Sherlock’s robe upwards and across Sherlock’s back so he’s exposed from the waist down. It isn’t just the sudden flow of cool air which makes him shiver.

“Hm,” the Doctor’s palm brushes across the revealed skin. “Really should find something to put on those, otherwise you’re going to have some lovely bruises.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. The heat in his arse is a slow burning pulse, beating in time with his heart. He waits as the Doctor puts on the gloves, his breath coming a little quicker as the Doctor's hands part him gently, careful of the welts marking his skin, and hold him open: exposed and on display.

“I do hope I’ve locked the door,” the Doctor muses, apparently reading his mind. He stripes a cool line of gel along the crease of Sherlock's arse. “I’d hate for anyone to come in and see you like this.”

Sherlock swallows thickly. The words have sent a throb of sweet sensation to his cock.

“I think I did though,” there is the cool touch of a well-lubricated finger pressing against his opening, working the gel in. “Almost certain.” The finger is removed, returns slicker. “Open,” the Doctor instructs. “Exhale.”

Sherlock obeys, sighing shakily as the Doctor breaches and enters him. The unfamiliar intrusion should burn but his body has been so bombarded with competing sensations that the long, slow stretch feels exquisite.

“All right," says the Doctor, when he's several inches in. "What I want you to do is keep your abdominal muscles relaxed and contract your pelvic floor muscles for me.”

Sherlock does his best to comply, squeezing around the intruding finger.

“How does that feel?”

“Full,” Sherlock manages.

“No discomfort?”

“No.”

“Good And again?”

This time as he squeezes Sherlock feels his balls lift, his groin tighten, a sudden wash of heat. His muscles clench involuntarily.

“Right," says Doctor Watson sounding a little flustered for the first time. "Um. Good. No, no problems there.”

He withdraws his hand. Sherlock hears himself sigh at the loss.

“Just need to check out the prostate and then we’re all done.”

This time he uses two fingers, opening Sherlock a little wider, probing a little deeper. Sherlock takes him in without protest.

“Prostate feels rather swollen,” says the Doctor thoughtfully. He presses carefully down towards Sherlock’s stomach. “Probably all that wriggling around you were doing . How does this feel?”

“I’m not-” says Sherlock and breaks off as the Doctors fingers start to move gently inside him. “Oh, Doctor...”

"All right,” says the Doctor “How about this?”

The fingers of his other hand begin to make slow circles just above Sherlock’s scrotum massaging against the base of his cock.

“Oh God,” chokes Sherlock. His cock, which had been hanging half hard between his legs, thickens instantly.

“All right?”

Sherlock can’t answer. There’s a sudden surge of heat rushing from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. His heart thuds in his chest, his breath catches in his throat. He thinks he might, he’s not sure-

“Doctor,” he says, panicked. “John?”

There’s a warm hand resting on his back. “Shh, it’s all right. Quite normal.”

Sherlock pants. His arms are trembling.

“I have something here which will help,” the Doctor adds. From the sound of his voice he’s smiling.

Sherlock stares down at the towel-covered table, trying to recover his composture. When he tilts his chin towards his chest he can see his cock heavy and hard, a drop of clear fluid shining at the tip. There’s a muffled thud as something is placed on the table. He cranes his neck but he can’t see what it is. Something not very large by the sound of it, but possibly quite dense.

“All right, Holmes,” says Doctor Watson, professional again. “This is a prostate massager, I'm going to use it to ease some of the pressure, make you feel a bit more comfortable.”

Sherlock licks his lips. “Will it hurt, Doctor?”

“No, it shouldn’t. You must tell me if it does, all right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Good boy,” says the Doctor and Sherlock shivers. He does so want to be Doctor Watson’s good boy.

The cool touch of more lubricant and then something warm and smooth is pressed against his entrance.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nods.

“And in we go.”

The massager slides in easily in one smooth push. Sherlock had expected something larger, more intrusive, but this is barely wider than the Doctor’s two fingers. It sits within him comfortably, snug and smooth. His breath escapes him in a rush.

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

They stay motionless for a few moments, the Doctor holding the massager in place and absently rubbing his thumb along the crease of Sherlock thigh; Sherlock adjusting to the new sensation. The massager is heavy, not unpleasant but distinctly there. He tries an experimental squeeze and feels an answering slow curl of pleasure.

“Oh, I forgot to say,” says the Doctor casually. “It also does this.”

There’s a small but distinct click. The massager begins to vibrate with a slow rhythmic pulse.

“How's that; any discomfort?”

“No Doctor,” says Sherlock honestly. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

At first the vibrations are soothing, a gentle flutter which tickles his prostate and makes him want to arch his back, but soon the sensations spread becoming an insistent throbbing that Sherlock can feel in the bruises decorating his arse, deep in his balls, along and within the shaft of his cock. When he drops his head, his cock is thicker and harder than he’s ever seen it, a long thread of clear fluid falling from its tip onto the clean towel.

“That’s good,” says Doctor Watson. “Come on.”

He begins working the massager in and out; milking a second long drop from Sherlock’s aching cock.

Sherlock bites his lip, sweat beads his brow, there’s a growing urgency building deep inside, a surging, uncontrollable wave of pleasure.

“Oh!” he gasps, in tones of fairly convincing surprise, “Oh, Doctor _Watson!_ ”

In response the Doctor’s thrusts become faster, more insistent, urging him onwards. Sherlock pants, he can feel the vibrations everywhere now, his mouth, his nipples, his hands, his feet. His arse clamps down hard onto the toy and the delicious sensation of fullness tips him over the edge, convulsing in a series of orgasmic contractions that leave him shaking and crying out in joy and beneath it all steady and low, there’s the Doctor’s voice: “Good boy Sherlock, good boy, good boy.”

***

When Sherlock revives his legs have been covered with a blanket and something cool and soothing is being daubed across his arse.

“Leave it,” he says lazily. “It’s fine. I like them.”

“You say that now,” says John not pausing, “you’ll be singing a different song tomorrow when you can’t sit down.”

“I think you’re rather missing the point,” says Sherlock but makes no further comment. The cream has always been as much for John’s benefit as for Sherlock’s.

John completes his ministrations, pulls up the blanket and tweaks Sherlock’s ear. “The things I do to check your vital signs, eh?” he says.

Sherlock snorts. “Yes, I noticed that. Very enterprising, Doctor Watson.”

“I know a few tricks, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Hm. Yes, yes you do.” Sherlock closes his eyes then frowns. He has the nagging feeling there’s something he’s forgotten…Oh yes. “Do you want me to…?” he waves his hand in the vague direction of John’s crotch, his mouth.

“You’re all right, thanks.”

Sherlock rouses sufficiently to open his eyes. “Why not?” he asks, faintly offended.

“Last time we tried that you fell asleep half way through. Did nothing for my ego.”

“Oh.” Yes that did sound familiar. “Well you must let me…” He yawns so widely he feels his jaw creak.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“I have costumes John, entire wardrobes full of costumes.”

“I know you do, Sherlock.”

“Hm.” Sherlock closes his eyes, remembers something else and opens them again.

“John?”

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock?”

“Those molar masses?”

“Textbook said you were wrong.”

“Textbook was wrong then,” says Sherlock decisively.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Go to sleep.”

And Sherlock obeys.


End file.
